Page 52 of Fated

So he leans down, the warm breeze rustling his hair, blowing sand over my bare feet, catching the sound of music floating in the air and the scent of fireworks and bonfire, and he clutches my hand tightly—clutches it so hard that I feel the weight of him—the heavy, solid weight in the palm of my hand—and then Mila says, “Mummy, I really want to go to the Jardin Anglais to see the flower clock,” and I say,

“Not now.”

“But I really want to go to the Jardin Anglais. Max said he’d take us this weekend. I heard him on Friday. He said he would.”

I blink at McCormick. He’s staring down at me, a frown on his face.

I look around. What’s Mila doing here?

“Mum, wake up.”

McCormick clutches my hand and his grip is smooth, heavy, metal-cool.

“I want to kiss you,” I tell him.

And he smiles that smile that reaches deep into my chest and grips my heart.

“Wake up, wake up! The flower clock is waiting! Mum!”

Another firework explodes and a flash of bright white light, as bright as daylight, hits, and I gasp, open my eyes wide, and?—

Wake up.

20

The Flower Clock,or L’Horloge Fleurie, is on the west side of the Jardin Anglais. The clock is five meters wide and is made entirely of blooming flowers and plants. It was first created in 1955 to celebrate the one-hundred-year anniversary of the park. The celebration mixed horticulture with horology, and the clock keeps time precisely.

“Buthowdoes it keep time precisely?” Mila asks, squeezing my fingers as she jumps up and down to see the sloping clock and the giant ticking second hand.

The metal hand is two-and-a-half meters long—the longest second hand in the world.

“It’s controlled by satellite,” I answer, smiling at her enthusiasm.

“I thought it was controlled by flower power,” Max says, winking at Mila.

She laughs and then lets go of my hand and runs down the wide paved path, unable to resist the lure of six thousand flowers bunched together, blooming in a giant ticking clock.

I understand the appeal. My dad used to bring Daniel and me here on Saturday mornings after he’d checked in at the office. On blue-sky summer days, rainy and leaf-soaked autumn days, even days when the smell of snow tinted the air, my dad would sit on one of the green wooden benches lining the path, read the newspaper, and smoke a cigar. The sweet cigar scent would float over the grass and tickle my nose. Daniel and I would run exuberant circles around the small hill and time our races to the ticking of the flowers.

Four times a year the gardeners would change the clock flowers with the season, and my dad would be sure to bring us to see each new clock face. I can count the years, see the seasons through the changing of the flowers on this clock—ice-green succulents, sunny yellow chrysanthemums, plum-purple geraniums, snow-white phlox.

Max smiles over at me and then steps closer, falling in step beside me as we follow Mila.

I woke him when I called at seven, but being Max, he didn’t mind. He arrived forty-five minutes later, unshaven, bleary-eyed, and wearing jeans and a leather jacket. It’s Max, incognito.

“I’d hate you if I didn’t love you,” he’d said, mumbling into his phone.

I’d laughed and told him to come pick us up for a morning at the flower clock with coffee and pastries. And then Mila said, loud enough for him to hear, “You promised!”

Max’s hand brushes against mine, but instead of pulling back, he leaves the back of his hand resting on mine.

“How was the party?” he asks, his voice careful.

I glance at him quickly, stunned and confused. How does he know about the anniversary party? How does he know about the island and McCormick?—

“After I left. How was it? Is your mom still here?”

“My mum?”

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